I know that sounds odd, but there can be comfort in ripping the scab off a wound. Pain, yes, but relief. Finally, this is out in the open. Finally, I have confessed my sins. Finally, someone knows.

I didn’t see her drop the swords or put them away, but they vanished. She took my face in her hands as she continued looking into my eyes, examining my features.

“Who is your lord?” she asked me. “Who owns your thudajé?”

“The Markreev of Stav—” I began to answer.

“No,” she corrected.

I shuddered as I realized the truth in that single, simple word. Supposedly, I owed my thudajé to the Markreev of Stavira, Aroth Malkoessian. Supposedly, I knew my place, gave him my loyalty. Yet in truth, I’d had none for him since the day he’d decided to place his son’s ambitions over my house’s honor. So who was left? Xun, Duke of Jorat? Possibly Duke Xun. But I hadn’t seen the man in years; it’s difficult to be loyal to someone who is only a name.

Then I realized the obvious answer.

“You,” I said. “The Eight. You have always had my thudajé.”

Her gaze continued to trap mine, judging and righteous, but her hands shifted their position until they cradled my cheeks. She bent over and kissed me on the forehead before letting me go. “I was wrong about you.”

“Wrong?” Was that good or bad? Did she mean she shouldn’t have spared my life?

She turned away, releasing me from her gaze. I felt like I had been held up on strings, freed to slump against the ground and regain my breath. I sought out the vané man for some explanation, but he stared at me as if he’d never seen me before.

“I have a bad habit of writing off people as lost causes too soon,” Thaena explained. “I assumed that once Xaltorath had her claws in you, you would be lost to us.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Mother didn’t believe me,” the Manol vané interjected at last, “when I told her you aren’t a demon yet.”

Thaena spread her hands. “In my defense, it is unprecedented. Demons devour or demons infect. Demons do not show mercy.”

I raised my head. “I wouldn’t call it mercy.”

That stare again from those mirror eyes. “No, I can see why you wouldn’t.” She held out her hands, benediction or apology. “I was wrong about you,” she said again, “and therefore, you haven’t received aid that might have served you. So now I owe you a boon. What do you want? Ask me a favor, and if it is in my power to grant, I will do so.”